


Sword hands

by SecondStarOnTheLeft



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-12-01 01:21:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11475627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondStarOnTheLeft/pseuds/SecondStarOnTheLeft
Summary: Edmure is called home to Riverrun, after Jaime knights him, and it is three long years before they are reunited.That reunion is both surprising, and utterly inevitable.





	Sword hands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Whiskeyjack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whiskeyjack/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Spoils of war](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8912419) by [SecondStarOnTheLeft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondStarOnTheLeft/pseuds/SecondStarOnTheLeft). 



> Happy (slightly belated) birthday, Tora, from Lauren <3

**I.**

 

Despite his fine words, Edmure Tully was called home directly from Pyke by a father eager to take the measure of his long-absent heir.

Jaime watches him ride away, sunset catching alight in that ruddy hair of his, and wonders at the wistful catch in his throat. He is fond of the lad, has been fond of him for years now, but surely he won’t  _ miss _ the little fish?

They faced one another in the tilt, at the tourney his father threw to celebrate the crown’s victory, and ran three lances, laughing all the while - even while lying on the ground with his horse prancing two strides from his head, Edmure had laughed, and Jaime had laughed when he had swung down to his feet and heaved Edmure upright, laughed as Edmure swept a courtly bow and the commons cheered to see two such fine knights, one their very own Ser Jaime, make mock as friends.

No one else in King’s Landing ever takes defeat so well as Edmure, particularly not at the  _ Kingslayer’s  _ hand. But then, Jaime cannot remember even overhearing Edmure call him that by chance - only  _ ser,  _ once he’d overcome his awe and stopped  _ Ser Jaime- _ ing every time he opened his mouth. 

“You’ve done a fine job with that one,” Uncle Kevan says, surprising Jaime. “Mayhap you could make a habit of it.”

 

**II.**

 

Cousin Lancel is decidedly  _ not _ Edmure Tully.

 

**III.**

 

Jaime loathes every second he spends as knight-master to the succession of useless fools foisted upon him by his lord father - cousins and sons of bannermen, or sons of men who might be useful in the future. He knows that his father considers Loras Tyrell’s being sent to Storm’s End instead of to Jaime to be an insult, knows that he considers the promise of Randyll Tarly’s second son and, be it due to accident or design, eventual heir to be a coup. 

Jaime finds them all  _ tiresome.  _ They all take it so seriously, to be the  _ Kingslayer’s  _ squire, none of them deriving any sort of joy from swordplay - something Jaime cannot understand at all, because swordplay has long been his greatest joy aside from Cersei’s cunt - and not one of them laughing in the face of defeat.

None of them answer to teasing nicknames on the yard, either, or speak to Tyrion with genuine interest, or bow as low to Cersei as they do to Robert. Boors and bores, and not a one to break the monotony of King’s Landing, which stands staid beyond Robert’s inner circle - to which Jaime will never gain admittance, even if he wanted it.

 

**IV.**

 

He never writes a letter to Edmure Tully, and not only because while he slept on a pallet in the squires’ quarters of the White Sword Tower, Edmure Tully served as scribe to Jaime as well as squire.

And besides - it’s not  _ done. _

 

**V.**

 

“Fish!”

The calls goes up among the lads who squired in King’s Landing in the wake of the Rebellion, led by Renly Baratheon - and yes, there among the mob, Edmure’s bright hair stands out like a candle in the dark.

He is eight-and-ten now, grown into those long legs and broad shoulders, and Jaime is startled by the tightness of his chest when Edmure turns, seeks him out, and smiles hard enough to crack. Jaime is not a man given to attachment - Cersei, always Cersei, Tyrion, his father, and Addam Marbrand, sometimes - but this fierce urge to return Edmure’s smile feels like it might be attachment, which is strange, but not unwelcome.

“Ser,” Edmure says, bowing his head. “You’ve survived this long without me to polish your boots?”

“And you, Tully,” Jaime returns, laughing when Edmure, in typically exuberant fashion, tugs Jaime into an embrace - one which is not wholly unwelcome. “Lived this long without me watching your back?”

Jaime can’t remember the last time he smiled this much, and can see the surprise on the faces around them - but loses track, when Edmure’s friends surround them once more, and ceases caring as soon as the thought it gone from his head.

  
  


Cersei is jealous of Edmure, and it takes longer than Jaime might like to admit for him to understand  _ why.  _

 

**VII.**

 

There is a sort of hidden-away place, in the shadows of the Red Keep. It is a rare spot that is not overlooked by some window, whether from Maegor’s Holdfast or the kitchen keep or one of the towers, but here it is, small and tucked behind a corner, where neither Cersei nor the gods can see him.

There, drunk, is where Jaime leans over and kisses Edmure Tully’s smiling mouth, biting hard enough to bruise, clutching at Edmure’s lean hips and broad back, growling when Edmure twists a hand through Jaime’s hair.

“Did you think of this when you helped me dress?” he says, as evenly as he can manage while crowded back against the wall by Edmure’s eager caresses, by the greedy slide of Edmure’s mouth over his throat. “Did you, Tully? Did you dream of touching me?”

_ “Yes, _ ” Edmure gasps, thrilled and shy in equal measure. Now is not the time for that, though, and Jaime slides a hand under jerkin and shirt to the warm skin of Edmure’s firm belly, to coax and lead by example.

Edmure’s hands, steady and sure as ever on Jaime’s laces, drop to his breeches. Deft and practiced, and seeking where before they only dressed.

Jaime lets his head tip back against the wall. He cannot do much else, aside from keep his grip on Edmure’s hips.

“I thought of doing this,  _ ser _ ,” Edmure says against Jaime’s pulse. “Or of dropping to my knees-”

Jaime bites hard enough to draw blood inside his own mouth, when Edmure’s hand curls around his cock.

“But we have not the time for that,” Edmure goes on, teeth catching on the bob of Jaime’s throat. “We hardly have the time for this before we’ll be missed.”

He’s good, he’s wonderful, he smells of freshly washed linen and of beer, and Jaime’s mouth is watering but his throat is dry. His cock is aching, his chest is aching, and somehow, he feels like laughing - because shocking though this is, it is also an inevitability, and he is delighted by it.

He drags Edmure up for a kiss as Edmure drags his hand, so slowly, the length of Jaime’s cock, and moans at the sparking, skittering pleasure following those strong fingers.

“Very good, boy,” he manages, halfway laughing against Edmure’s tongue, and is rewarded with one of those noon-bright smiles and a  _ bite,  _ of all things, against the corner of his jaw. “Very, very good, yes, very good, excellent technique, I, yes-”

Edmure kisses him, shuts him up, and Jaime  _ moans  _ again, like a whore, as he comes sticky and wet across Edmure’s hand and wrist. 

“And my father told me that a trip to King’s Landing would be fruitless,” Edmure says, wiping himself clean on the tails of Jaime’s shirt, startling another delighted laugh from Jaime as he tidies himself away.

“We must make certain that it is as fruitful as possible, then,” Jaime says, “just to prove him wrong.”


End file.
